Homecoming
by fishnsotong
Summary: Thorin journeys to work as a blacksmith in the town of Bree. As he passes by the Shire, Thorin realises that hobbits need a blacksmith too. Thorin comes to grips with his lost home and eventual homecoming. Or is home where the heart is? With fem!Bilbo and planned Bagginshield.
1. Chapter 1

Poor lodgings in exile. That's what they are, Thorin's internal monologue deadpanned as his gaze wandered over the dwarven settlements in he Blue Mountains. Tents were being pitched, fires were lit, and ponies were left to rest in makeshift stables. Only half of their number survived the relentless exodus from Erebor. The trek of the dwarves brought them through the plains of Rohan, the cities of Gondor, wastelands, badlands, and of course, mountains. But never once will his people be found within 100 miles of any filthy _Elven _halls. Whether it was Lothlorien, Rivendell or Greenwood, they were all the same. Deceitful creatures that smiled warmly, giving you the mere illusion of unbridled hospitality. But once the days turn sour, when the shadow of evil ensnares you, they were nowhere to be found. Not an ounce of help came from any elf that day in Erebor, and since that day, he yearned for none.

That was it. Only half of the population of a once mighty people brought low remained. They were under threat of orcs, wargs and other fell beasts of the wild. Some faded from grief, others fell from starvation and exhaustion as they trudged on, refugees seeking for a place to call home. Orcs and Wargs from Gundabad and the lowlands took their opportunities with the weakened dwarves, Khazad-dum was long taken by orcish filth, and Azog the Defiler swore to vanquish the line of Durin, and to desecrate its halls. And you thought a dragon was enough. The War between the Dwarves and the Orcs was long over, however. King Thror was slain in 2790, and King Thrain II was taken prisoner not long after in the battle of Azanulbizar. The dwarves emerged victorious, but were subjugated by their own victory. Their dead were not buried according to dwarvish customs, for dwarves never bury their dead in the soil. They were entombed in stone, laid to rest into their very lifeblood. Many funeral pyres were built and lit that day, and the dead were honoured as the burned dwarves of Azalnubizar.

After the Battle, Thorin II gained his epithet Oakenshield, and he became the sole heir to the line of Durin. However, he was an heir without a hope and a future. He was a King without a realm to rule over. Even so, he took to the anvil and led his people out of poverty. He trafficked and traded. And now, here they were, in the Southern Blue Mountains, with their own store of goods and a good hall to house the wandering Durin's Folk.

Their haven in the Blue Mountains was a welcome change of scenery from days out in the wild, running from orcs and worrying about things to eat. Ered Luin was a chance to rebuild their lives and their wealth in the safety of the mountains. But Thorin's frustrations simmered on low as he surveyed the blooming colony. Soon, it will be a city with _almost_ all the comforts of home. But it will only be a fraction of Erebor's magnificence. That's what their lives were reduced to. _Fractions_. But the days grew long and weary, and Thorin II Oakenshield yearned for more work to do for his people. Raised as a warrior and traveller after the sacking of Erebor, he was unaccustomed to the paperwork and bureaucracy of ruling a growing Dwarf community. This job, he would gladly give it to his sister Dis. In a week he would be looking for work in the villages and towns of men, while bringing along his two sister-sons as he taught them how to use a forge, and how to wield the swords they could produce.

Fili and Kili never saw the greatness of Erebor, and so were greatly entertained with tales of the great mines that were streaked with seams of mithril and gold. With rubies, diamonds, emeralds and sapphire nestled and embedded into the rock. The forges of Erebor was the masterpiece of dwarven industry and productivity, with rows of anvils, hammers and mechanized tools to fashion objects of use and beauty.

* * *

Thorin II and his sister-sons will journey east to find work, like many of his kin. Line of Durin or not, he plans to journey from the Blue Mountains, to cross the River Lhun. After steering clear of the Grey Havens, filled with elvish scum. Thorin shall travel deep within Eriador, his final destination being the prosperous town of Bree. Thorin walked as his sister-sons saddled on the pony. The landscape morphed from snowy mountains and flowing rapids to manicured green rolling hills and streams flowing with water, pure and sweet. The azure sky above them was streaked with silken cirrus clouds. They came across a race known to them only in tales: Hobbits.

The dwarves rarely had to look down to speak to someone. Mostly, they had to look up. To Thorin the act of looking up was rather humiliating, to say the least, and none can cajole him from his constant state of self-deprecation since the day he tore his beard when Thor had been slain. He felt that looking down at other, smaller races was a welcome change. But the hobbits, as they were called, troubled him. They were the picture of contentment and peace itself. It seems that they have led lives with no shortage of food, and the worst fight they could get was when a wolf threatened their pigs. They had no gold, nor precious metal. They however, led simple lives that were happy. And happiness, was something that Thorin felt that he could not give to his people however hard he tried.

To add insult to injury, these hobbits were out in the open, with no protection from invading powers and _dragons _except the thin ceiling of their hole-dwellings and the occasional armed Ranger that popped by. Besides being well-fed, jovial and foolishly ignorant of the evils f the world, they were also vulnerable in Thorin's prideful gaze. He couldn't help but complain inwardly that a dragon didn't attack and sack their overly-peaceful existence off Middle-Earth. With hunger gnawing at his belly and two sister-sons to care for, Thorin realized that he has to settle down for the night. He led his pony into a place known as Hobbiton, hoping for a place to spend the night in. He resolved to leave for Bree tomorrow, and would never return to such an accursed place that brought such raw and unwelcome emotions to him. He was never so wrong in his life.

* * *

AN: Hello there, this is my first time writing fanfiction, I'm not really sure of where to lead this story, and whether I should include any romantic/sexual undertones before or after Erebor. And even then, I would need guidance. I would like to thank everyone for viewing this story, please review so that I can have insight on where to bring this. I would like to thank BlueHeartBear for her guidance and support in the first chapter. Go check out her work as BlueHeartBear on deviantart.

Thank you all so much.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Hello there, thanks for all your support, I wouldn't have wanted a better launch. I will be posting chapters every two or three days, so not to worry. To answer Ellie's Imagination World's question, this story will be in 3rd person, focusing from character to character as the plot (and my sadistic fluff-hungry head) requires. For example, this chapter will provide a background for Bella (Bilbo, for the lack of a better name), and how her house seems empty after the Fell Winter.

* * *

Bella Baggins was all alone. She had never been alone for such a lone time. Bag End was no longer filled with the laughter of her childhood, the loving words of her parents, and the hushed voices that Primula Brandybuck spoke in when she stopped by, discussing who was the most desirable hobbit lad in all of the Shire. Those were words of a past, a past that is gone, and will forever be.

It all started with Belladonna Took of the Great Smials and Bungo Baggins of Hobbiton. It was a mutual attraction between them that brought them together. Bungo would be fascinated by how Belladonna was determined to rush off into the woods to find elves, her hair trailing off as it reflected the gentle sunlight. She would strive to climb apple trees, and orange trees, grinning victoriously as she selected the freshest of produce to throw down to Bungo. He never would admit, but Bungo enjoyed peeking up her skirts as she climbed from tree to tree. (That little pervert)

Bungo's adventures with Belladonna were not well received by many of the more proper Bagginses in Hobbiton, but after a tiring day out, Belladonna was glad that she could rest with Bungo near the hearth of her smial, with a mug of restorative tea and Bungo telling her tales of legends, dragons, elves and dwarves. The relationship was hardly platonic, but it was denied that it was something more by both parties, and that made it even more scandalous to the folks of the Shire.

As children, Belladonna would amaze Bungo with all her daring adventures that included crossing the Brandywine River without the bridge, catching fireflies in the Old Forest, and spending a day in the town of Bree. Bungo would indulge Belladonna with his maps, books and tales of old. He would take brilliant care of her, never letting her come to any harm. And she was glad that he had the best of teas.

However close they were, Bungo never dared to ask her for his hand in courtship. Even after their thirty-third birthday and coming of age, they remained as friends to each other, even though others suspected something more. Years after they came of age, Bungo started work as a trader between Hobbiton and Bree, while Belladonna was content foraging for herbs and plants in forests and fields to be used in apothecaries. Bungo would be gone for weeks on end, while the two secretly pined for each other.

Then Bungo came back with a gift. A delicately crafted dagger made for men. In miniature hobbit hands, the weapon would serve nicely as a short sword, a gladius of sorts. Bungo meant it as a courting gift, a dowry of sorts, as is expected to begin a courtship. But never before, even in the wildest of Tooks, that the very courting gift be a weapon. It was a fine weapon made of dwarven steel, a relic of the great kingdoms in Bungo's books. And that day in Hobbiton amongst the members of Bungo's caravan, he dropped to one knee and proposed, "Mistress Baggins, I have known you through our childhood, I have stood with you through thick and thin. I promise you, as the heir to my household and your longtime companion, that I shall protect you, love you, and care for you in the good times and the bad. May I ask for your hand in courtship?"

"Are you…drunk?" Belladonna quipped, trying to catch a whiff of ale on his breath.

"No..I'm—" Bungo's reply was cut off as Belladonna pressed her lips against his, to thunderous applause.

* * *

Bag End was built soon after the pair wed. Built by the skilful hand of Bungo, it was designed for comfort, warmth and a large family. The pantry, in all its enormity was stocked with meats, cheeses, preserves and breads of various kinds. The hearth in the living room was large, though not excessively. It warmed the large smial in the cold, it's orange light welcoming, an epitome of the hospitality of hobbits. And the amount of rooms that had to be built was large for a single-family dwelling, as hobbits tended to have large families and many guests. But their plans were cut short, for the Fell Winter approached.

It started as a harmless winter that fell over the Shire. One fine autumn day, as the trees shed the last of their leaves, auburn and copper flowing lazily to the ground. First snow fell upon the Shire, the white crystals descended upon the dirt streets and farms with an almost ethereal grace. Hobbit children ran out of their houses to play with the pristine snow. An adolescent Bella Baggins peeked her head out of the yellow, round door of Bag End. She ran out through the doorway, swiftly passing by the porch into the garden. The small clumps of snow fell into the copper curls of her hair, as she relished the coldness of the day. She spent a few minutes out in the snow, tasting flakes with her tongue. The first snow of the winter played the innocent well, as the hobbits of the Shire welcomed a change in scenery. But it would be winter that would be known throughout history as the one that caused widespread suffering throughout Eriador, especially the hobbits.

A few days after the first snow fell, a great change in the wind was felt throughout Hobbiton. A harsh easterly wind swept from the Misty Mountains, bringing hail and sleet. The hail battered the crops of the Hobbits, while the sleet flooded their gardens and muddied their streets. After their agricultural livelihood had been destroyed, did the full repercussions of the winter come in. It was no ordinary winter. The nights were long while the days were short. Orcs and trolls moved in from the east, undeterred by the cold.

The cold. It was the just the mere beginning. As a snowstorm fell, covering the hobbits in foot after foot of snow, they gradually felt that their warm hearths weren't warm as before. That their beds weren't as cosy. It wasn't a stark change, it crept in silently like an assassin, the cold slowly creeping into the bones of the hobbits. They were long shivering in their beds before they realized that their pantries were emptying. Unlike the usual gentle winters that covered the Shire, this winter battered all their crops, even the hardiest of tubers and potatoes were dead in the soil. There goes their food. For the first time in a long time, hobbits went to bed with empty stomachs.

With hunger, comes weakness, with weakness, comes disease. It first started as a sneeze, before many hobbits descended into pneumonia. They coughed and retched out phlegm and blood. No herbal brew nor antidote could cure their ailing bodies. One day, they just didn't wake up. Many children and elderly were lost. If Bella was born a few years later, there was no way she could have survived. One night, Bungo Baggins awoke with a fever, Belladonna, fearing the worst, brought him to a healer in the middle of the night. Strange howls have been heard at night for the past few moons, not risking anything, Belladonna slung the dwarvish blade her husband gave her years ago into a belt. The bedraggled pair left Bag End, never to return again.

* * *

The next day, Bella woke up with a start. It was the Thain who woke her. Bella thought him rude to enter a house uninvited at an ungodly hour in the morning. An worse still, he was found in the room of an unmarried maiden! The Thain drew back with a start once she woke, his expression unreadable, his eyes solemn. A local healer stepped into the room, the front of her apron was splattered with blood. Her eyes were gaunt and her face was pale from sleepless nights tending to patients. However, the blood on her apron was unusual and unexpected. Victims of the illness haven't been bleeding, the normal symptoms include a high fever, a cough and a runny nose, before pneumonia takes over, and lung failure whisks them from their families and loved ones. There was no blood.

The healer whispered to the Thain while Bella was out of earshot, after she was done, the expression on his face went from unreadable to downright grim. As a few more hobbits entered the smial, Bella realised that the illness that subjugated the Shire must have taken a turn for the worse. Boils or sores must have appeared on someone's skin, causing them to bleed violently. The healers of the Shire would be much in need of elvish herbs that Bungo might have brought back from Bree. The elvish herbs that never arrived once Bungo was taken ill. Bella felt distraught to be the harbinger of such ill news to the Thain, that there were no herbs to save whichever poor soul that was bleeding out in front of their families. Bella couldn't have made worse assumption than she did then.

"Mistress Baggins," the Thain began, Bella frowned as no one had called her 'Mistress' before. "I am absolutely sorry for your loss. Both your parents were caught out in the snowstorm last night. A pack of wolves ambushed them. Your mother fought off 3 of them before the pair was overcame by such foul creatures. I'm absolutely sorry to trouble you, Miss Baggins, but their will would be read the day after tomorrow, immediately after second breakfast. I'm really sorry..." By then, Bella wasn't really listening. She knew what this meant. She would be the head of house for the Baggins family. Bag End was her house now. It was considered tragic, being forced to such a role when she was still a chaste maiden who was not even of age.

Years past, the yellow door of Bag End was often visited by concerned neighbours and the Sackville-Bagginses, who insisted that Bag End was _their_ property. However, nothing could fill the gnawing emptiness of Bella's heart. Not even hours of restocking her pantry, cleaning the floors, brewing tea and reading books would keep her from obsessively polishing her mother's sword, her most prized possession, one of Bella's only ties with her. Soon, Primula Brandybuck, one of her constant companions fell in love with a suitor. She was soon betrothed after many months of courtship, and even though Bella was happy for her, the space in her heart became a chasm of loneliness.

Bella retreated into solitude, and became nervous, anti-social and increasingly jaded. She found herself unable to hold decent conversations, and the medium sized crowd at the market put her on edge. She was becoming increasingly pretty, and there were many suitors for her. However, she was unable to reciprocate their love for her. And she turned every single one of them down. She chose to retreat into the realm of books and maps, fantasizing of elves, dwarves and men. She kept herself engrossed in tales of talking trees, magnificent mountains, of brave men keeping an evil at bay, of a particular heart-breaking tale of a dragon.

She was known as the young, beautiful head of the great Baggins of Hobbiton. The girl who never smiled.

* * *

AN: Don't worry. We'll see Thorin the next chapter ok? I have the slow burn all planned out.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Beloved Daughter, your parents should be proud of you. Thank you so much for helping me with continuing this story. Thorin and fem!Bilbo meeting for the first time was always a difficult scene to broach for me. Thank you for your help in furthering my story. As for all other reviewers, favourites and follows, thank you for your help as well. I could ask for no better reception.

* * *

Thorin dragged his feet along the dirt path leading up to Hobbiton. His boots caked with mud. Lightning illuminated the dark sky, the flash of light momentarily wiping the stars from view before it faded; the superheated air crackled and erupted in a cacophony of noise, and there was nothing again, but the zephyr blowing in his face. As the first drops of rain hit, Thorin draped his fur coat over the sleeping forms of his sister sons, which were keeled over each other on the pony.

Upon reaching the first oddly-shaped house with a round door, his hand ghosted over the front gate. His hand ghosted over the latch as he wondered in awe how someone managed to build such a complex locking mechanism with three failsafes.

Tying the pony to a fence post, he investigated further. The three latches at the gate separating the front garden from the outside world were marred with rust. There were no keyholes to pick. There was no knocker in sight. There wasn't even a doorknob or a ringer-bell or Mahal-damned lock to break. Thorin swallowed. Surely it must be one of those new, intruder-proof hydraulic designs made by Balin before the sacking of Erebor.

_Erebor_. Thorin slammed the lock in frustration. The rusted latches snapped under the force while splinters of unoiled, brittle plywood jammed into Thorin's hands. Blood trickled onto the grass. The gate was not protected by some intricate security system. It was a simple latch mechanism. It was nothing in dwarven eyes. Just pull the latch lightly, and it should come off. Yet he had been humbled, humbled by the simple yet unnervingly manner of these hobbits. The master of these halls would not be pleased with him, he thought.

Thorin drew in a sharp breath as he tugged at the large splinter of wood embedded in his palm. Repairing a gate would require a day, further delaying his journey. He made up his mind to do it; after all, it was only honourable. After binding his hand with a rag of cloth, he led his pony to the fence and tied its lead. Judging by the dim lighting that shone through the curtained windows, the hole's inhabitants must be awake still. Thorin stared at the door for a long time, as if willing for it to on its own. Remembering that his nephews were caught out in the rain, he brought himself to slam his palm against the door. Twice. This brought a dull ache to his injured hands. There was a brief commotion, and the door swung open.

"Lobelia Sackville-Bag-" Bella's tirade came to an abrupt end, stopped by the unfamiliar, well-chiselled face that greeted her. Thorin's icy blue eyes searched the small female hobbit that stood on the other side of the threshold, mere feet away. She was slight for a hobbit, looking as if she was not of age. Her kind, caring face was clean, cheeks healthy and pink. She bore no signs of recent travelling or hardships. Slightly curly, her auburn hair cascaded down her shoulders in copper waves. Her bright emerald eyes shone in the evening dusk, as if she was surprised to see a dwarf instead of an annoying relative at her front door. Her face was contorted in mild shock while her moist, pink lips hung slightly open. Taken off guard by the sight in front of him, Thorin let his gaze flutter down the smooth skin of her throat, to the front of her sheer nightgown. The thin lace of the nightgown did little to shield her curves from prying eyes. Thorin's gaze was momentarily affixed on the gentle swell of her bosom, his face flushing red as he caught a glimpse of twin red circles, hard and erect in the cool evening air. Realising what he was doing, he brought his steely gaze up to meet Bella square in the eye.

Meanwhile, Bella was confused. Why in the name of the Valar was a dwarf man standing in her doorway, so far from home? There rarely were any men or dwarves in the Shire, if there were any they were traders or messengers. This man looked like neither of them. Shifting her eyes from the dwarf's bearded and grimy face to his broadsword on his belt, she realised that he looked more of a bandit, murderer and rapist than anything else. However, his expression told her otherwise. In his face, he saw a man marred by worries and travel. He saw a desperate traveller needing assistance of some sort.

Not wanting to come off as a rude, uncaring and respectable hobbit whose irresponsible parents didn't teach her manners, she edged her round door slightly open, both of them sizing the other up. As her eyes met his, she suddenly realised her state of undress and swiftly tied her dressing gown around her waist. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson as she realised what he was looking at.

Thorin mentally chided himself for letting his guard down, however momentarily, it was a sign of weakness, and weakness was not befitting of a dwarf lord, exiled or not. He bowed low, as any polite dwarf would, taking the opportunity to cup her small, smooth hands in his rough, calloused ones. He gently pressed his lips onto the back of her hand, before pulling away elegantly, as was taught to him in the halls of Erebor. Even if he would need to go door-to-door for a roof over his head, he would do it with style befitting of a king. "Thorin II Oakenshield, at your service milady," he greeted her in baritone voice which implied authority.

Never had Bella been greeted so formally before, she drew a deep breath as she stumbled over words in her head. Not wanting to make a fool of herself over the first dwarf she had ever met, she was more than happy when Thorin continued.

"Milady, may I have the honour of knowing your name?" Thorin asked.

"Bella Baggins, at-at your service, Master Oakenshield." Bella managed to stutter out a reply, still unsure of whether she would come off as offensive or polite.

"It's Thorin, not Oakenshield," the thoughtful reply came as Thorin absentmindedly edged into the house. "What say you, Mistress Baggins, to allow my two nephews and I shelter in your halls till tomorrow?" Thorin requested brusquely. Bella looked up at him in shock, first the dwarf appeared in his doorway, now he was asking whether he could board in her home for one night. Towering over her, the rather tall dwarf was quickly encroaching on her personal space.

Sensing her hesitation, Thorin took out a small bag of silver and held it in front of her, "This will be yours," he added smoothly. Bella however, was even more uncomfortable with the idea. In such a close-knit community such as Hobbiton, with a greater community in the Shire, gossip spread faster than wildfire. The fact that Bella took a dwarf into her house in the dead of night with payment would be scandalous. Lobelia Sackville Baggins would ruin every last shred of dignity she had with her uncouth lies. Bella forced a smile on her face, before saying, "Master Thorin, I apologise, but currently, I am having dinner and it's impolite to ask a lady if you can board in her house in such a short notice. I'm sorry for making it so hard for you, but I had to speak my mind-" before she could even say 'please leave', or that he could find a boarding house a few smials down the road, Thorin set the bag of silver in her hand with a subtle smile.

"Apology accepted, Mistress Baggins." He set down his sword on the floor next to the door with a loud clunk, and went out in the rain. "Fili, Kili, get down from the pony! There's dinner!" Thorin bellowed to his nephews. Bella looked down at the bag of silver in frustration. She cursed the wandering dwarf with selective hearing, before tossing the bag of silver into her room and fussing over what to wear for dinner.

* * *

When Bella came out of her room, she was wearing a violet blue dress with a matching navy-blue bodice. She had her hair neatly braided behind her pointy ears. Living alone, it had been a long time since she was dressed up for dinner. Most of the time, it was just her, her nightgown and dressing gown. Another thing she had to prepare herself for was the appetite of dwarves. Nearly rivalling hobbits with their love of food, tales of them eating cheese by the chunk and of them drinking ale straight from the barrel were known far and wide.

She shuddered at the thought of letting a family of these messy eaters into her house, and said a silent prayer to the Valar, that they would bless her for caring for wandering travellers. As she stepped into the dining hall of Bag End, she saw her table lined with goods from her pantry, most of them were prepared by her guests, ranging from cake to meatloaf to ale, and the table was neatly loaded.

Thorin and his nephews were sitting at the far side of her table. Thorin however, seemed like a different dwarf when next to his nephews. Instead of being imposing, aloof and strangely fierce, he seemed to be a brighter and kinder soul, with a subtle, but perpetual smile on his face. His nephews were young for dwarves. One of them was a blond and the other was a brunet. The blond seemed older, as he had a short beard cropped short against his chin. The brunet was younger, without a trace of a beard on his chin; however, he had impressive sideburns which were delicately braided either by their mother, or Thorin.

"I'll greet her first, I'm older!" the blond declared playfully to the brunet as they stood up in unison.

"No! I'll greet her first, you fell asleep on the pony first anyway!" the brunet responded cheekily.

As they approached her, the two dwarves came to some kind of internal agreement. "Fili," the blond began.

"And Kili," the brunet continued. "At your service, Mrs Boggins!" they completed their introduction in perfect sync with much mock grandeur. Bowing low, they returned to their seats, drawing chuckles from both Bella and Thorin.

"Nice to meet you as well, Fili and Kili, wait…how did you know my name?" Bella blurted out. Suddenly, she realised that she had given Thorin her name, and regretted spewing such nonsense. But Kili's reply was not what she expected as she smoothed her dress while sitting down.

"Why your name is inscribed there of course! B-e-l-l-a B-a-g-g-i-n-s." he spelled out, pointing to a plaque titled _Champion of the Game of Conkers_. "See Uncle? I know how to read Westron! I've been paying attention in Master Balin's lesson!" he boasted animatedly to his uncle. Bella gestured at the food, telling the dwarves to eat. And so, they ate in silence for quite a while, being hungry from the previous day.

For the dwarves, it was the first warm hearth and hearty meal they had since they left the Blue Mountains. And for Bella, it was the first friendly company she had. Ever since her parents died all those years ago. As the night drew on, they all felt one thing.

They felt happy.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Hello there, it seems that I haven't updated for a long while, and I shan't leave it at chapter 3 and keep you all unhappy. _DoS_, despite its flaws is an awesome movie, but it gave me writer's block as I tried to decide how to fit the quest in. I would like to thank every single cheerful follower, reviewer and favourite for helping me in this quest. A belated Merry Christmas to all of you cheerful people.

* * *

Rooms. There are always plenty of rooms in Bag End. As large as hobbit families go, there are as many rooms available. This made it so that there are as good as 8 usable rooms at any given time for visiting family members and guests, even though Bella was not wed, nor with child. The housework was a pain, but that came with a large house.

Finding a room for Fili and Kili was easy. They were around the same height as a hobbit child, though much older, and the four-poster beds meant for Paladin and Ferumbras would fit just fine. Upon entering the room, Fili and Kili found places where the Tooks hid slingshots, sweets and 'treasures' of various kinds, much to Bella and Thorin's chagrin.

"It's obvious that they were hiding stuff down there," Fili explained, pointing at the open floorboard.

"Yeah, it was jutting out at a weird angle," Kili continued, nodding his head sagely.

They looked at each other with eyes that were dead serious, before Kili turned to Bella in the hallway. "Actually we invented these hiding places two decades ago." Bella gave him a sly smile, youthfulness temporarily flooding her mature features, "You know, this room was my room when I was young. That's three decades ago."

Fili and Kili were dumbstruck, for once. Bella bent down and kissed their foreheads tenderly, before turning around, bidding the two young dwarves a good night. "I hope she doesn't tell uncle Thorin," Kili snorted, before commenting, "I doubt she won't, maybe she'll teach us some of her tricks instead."

* * *

Thorin stared blankly at the crackling hearth, seeing as orange tongues of flame licked at the cool air. For the first time in two weeks of travelling, he let himself think of home. The Blue Mountains was planned to be modest compared to other dwarven settlements and kingdoms of yore, built for safety and stability, not for extravagance.

Thorin's mind drifted back to his home once again. The Blue Mountains filled his mind's horizon, tall and proud, with the strength of thousands, and the might of millions more. The deep ashen hues of the snow-capped peaks were marred with shades of deep cobalt and pockets of azure cerulean. Why this particular mountain range was blue, the dwarves knew. It was something to do with the large amount of copper and nickel to be found, and how the sun's rays hit the mountain. He would not know the full story, but Balin will, he thought.

Thorin drew out a long breath that he had been holding, as it formed a misty cloud in the night air. He thought of home, how they finally had a supply of copper and coal. If they dug deeper enough, maybe they might have a stockpile of iron by the end of the year. How many people must leave their new home so soon just because they had to find work? How many people must toil in the cities and towns of men just for a few ounces of gold?

These questions weighed heavily on the back of Thorin Oakenshield, and the few days of travel only gave him a brief respite from his woes and worries. To any outside observer, Thorin's life was a string of endless failures and defeats. From the day Smaug came, to the battle of Azanulbizar, and now in his current state, diminished and shrunken, as a wandering blacksmith. While other successful lives were from rags to riches, and of beings that were born great, that strived for greatness, and had greatness thrust upon them. Thorin's life was not a successful life; it was not a great life.

True, he was born great, but was soon taken down and cast aside. Cast aside to a life in exile and pain. The sound of Bella clattering pots and pans in the kitchen of Bag End drove him out of his reverie. It would not do good to brood for long, and wallow in self-pity, Thorin thought. His restless mind wavered to the hobbit that had graciously allowed them to board in her halls for a few coins.

Never had someone been so kind to him since the day the line of Durin was driven out of their home in Erebor. He did not have to mention the elves, for them, with their kind faces and endless philosophy, turned their backs on their kin without much thought or consideration. Doubtlessly, they would not give a single ounce of kindness, or a single iota of thought to any dwarven stragglers they see.

The elves called the dwarves stone-grubbers, greedy, hollow people who had no feelings for others and their kin. They felt that all evil the dwarves brought upon to themselves was their own. Sometimes he wonders, if the elf-folk had been exiled far and long from Lothlórien, would they bear to pass by and not wish to look upon their home, even if it has become an abode of dragons?

Thorin sighed as he thought about men. To the dwarves they were shallow, calculative and easily corrupted. They do not know of the true value of gold and metals beyond jewellery and currency. The race of men never offered _help_, they only offered employment. They would never give anything without something in return.

Thorin sighed, depressed at his thoughts. He got up and rummaged through his pack, searching for his pipe, a tinderbox and his limited supply of tobacco from the north. Smoking was one of the bad habits that he picked up when he was young, as a slightly more expensive complement to ale. With the three items in hand, Thorin opened the round entrance of Bag End and stepped out into the front garden.

Illuminated by the dim glow of the moon and stars, the front garden looked almost ethereal, as the plants seemingly slept with the rest of the Shire. Thorin looked at the dismantled front gate, much to his chagrin; it was beyond repair and had to be replaced. Telling Mistress Baggins of what happened would be disastrous, no doubt. It would be Mahal's miracle if she would ever let a dwarf into her house ever again. Thorin looked around at the small garden, and saw a small hobbit-sized bench at the corner.

It would have to do, Thorin thought as he sat down, the bench creaking under his weight. He used two fingers to pack the cup of his pipe with tobacco, one of the stronger varieties. Thorin was not one to bother with flavoured tobacco or weed. He needed his smoke to be velvety, and yet strong. With his tinderbox, he lit a small flame and pressed it against the black curls in the cup of his pipe.

The dark swirls of tobacco lit, and the cup of Thorin's pipe was soon filled with red embers. Thorin inhaled deeply, breathing in the smoky musk that only good tobacco can provide. After a long drag, he puffed out the white smoke, watching it diffuse through the air.

The wooden bench creaked as a familiar figure sat down beside him. It was Bella, clothed in her maroon dressing gown. They sat together gazing at rolling hills and smials of Hobbiton in companionable silence. Bella took out her pipe, packed it with pipe-weed and lit it up. Soon, the air was mixed with the throaty musk of strong tobacco and the fruity, fragrant notes of pipe-weed.

Thorin was the first to speak up, "You smoke," he was too travel weary to curl the end of his sentence into a question. Bella sighed, her copper curls bristled against her shoulders, "Yes, I do. It reminds me of my father."

Thorin frowned, he thought of the hobbits as cheerful, merry children of the kindly West, safe from the dangers that lurked far in the north and in the east. Never had he considered that loss was a familiar feeling to them as well. Sensing that it was a delicate topic, he spoke of food this time around, "The dinner, it was great. I have never tasted such wonderful cooking since the great chefs in the halls of Erebor."

Bella giggled, "We hobbits are famous for our meals, we strive to have 6 per day if possible, please, and thank you. That wasn't dinner, Master Dwarf, the meal we had earlier was supper."

"Ach, it seems that our love of hearty food, strong drink and good cheer can only be rivalled by the likes of hobbits." Thorin gave himself a small smile as the hobbit exhaled and a white smoke ring floated up into the air, illuminated by the distant glow of starlight, before fading and seemingly making itself home in the clouds.

"Did you say Erebor?"Bella piqued curiously. "I read about it in stories that were passed on to me in books. The halls of carven stone, the water fountains of silver, and the greatness of the dwarven city hewn into the rock and earth." Thorin's brows were raised, even though Erebor frequently troubled his mind; it had been a long time since an outsider had asked him about it. "Have you been to Erebor, Master Dwarf?"

Thorin's answer was on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill descriptions and memories of the splendour of the kingdom that would still fall utterly short. There was so much to say, but there would be little he could say before he had to tell someone about the dragon. A wave of raw humiliation surged through him as he imagined the hobbit, after knowing about the dragon, to scorn dwarves as a weak and greedy race, unable to hold their own against a single beast.

But as Thorin looked into Bella's curious gaze, he realised that it was his duty to tell others of the greatness and splendour of Durin's line. So that they would be remembered, in times of need, by some people. Dwarven secrecy would not allow for more than that.

She deserved to know.

He deserved to tell.

His people deserved to be remembered, in tragedy and in splendour.

* * *

And so, Thorin spoke of not only the glory of Durin's line, but of it's plight as well, to none other than the ears of Bella Baggins of Hobbiton.

Bella Baggins was just an ordinary hobbit, thank you very much. Other than being orphaned by the Fell Winter, she was an unimportant maiden in the unimportant Shire with all the big-folk minding their great business. And here, there was a dwarf, Thorin was his name, he was telling him of the stories of his people in Erebor, of the gold and silver that flowed out of its mines. And the mithril that was refined in its forges, and the diamonds, rubies and emeralds cut and polished to precision in it's smithies. She felt odd, almost undeserving of hearing the tales and histories of such a secretive race.

And when the dragon came, she shuddered in mute shock that such a great calamity would befall such a race. The sacking of Erebor and the slaughter of its people was horrendous. But the fact that the dragon had actually occupied Erebor from that day till now added to the surreal feeling of it all. "Does the dragon, Smaug remain in Erebor till this day?" Bella asked, knowing the inevitable answer.

"Yes, he resides in our halls, resting in our gold, with the ashes of our people."Thorin said distastefully, remembering the day the fell wind blew toward the mountain from the north, the wings of the serpent echoing through the lands._ Boom. Boom. Boom._ It was like a great drum of war, but the bloodshed fell not by sword or axe or spear, but by the heat and burn of dragon fire.

Thorin's eyes seemed to have misted over in sadness and mourning as he looked back into the past. The dwarves have been concerned with the harsh need to move forward and stay alive, and few had the chance to look back and mourn for their fallen kin and comrades. "I'm sorry, I didn't know it was that bad. If you need a good pot of tea to calm your nerves, please do let me know-"

Bella's comforting words were cut off by Thorin's harsh ones, "I do not need your pity." Suddenly fuelled by hate and disgust over the dragon, the orcs, and almost everything under on Middle Earth, Thorin stood up abruptly. Bella gasped in shock as his sudden actions. Thorin silently put out his pipe and strode back into the smial, slamming the round, yellow door behind him. Bella let out a small sob, confused to why his actions were suddenly so hateful and distraught. Bella was also dumfounded, as to why she herself felt so hurt. She was rarely affected by the feelings and attitudes of others, years of dealings with the Sackville-Bagginses taught her so. But this dwarf was different, deep within the folds of her mind, maybe, just maybe she could have him as a friend. A fellow companion in whole of Arda. _Fitting, aren't we, a broken dwarf and a broken hobbit__. _Drying her eyes, she put out her own pipe and ambled into her own house. Maybe, just maybe, he just needed a cup of fine chamomile tea from the town of Bree.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Hello guys, just to let you know, I'm not dead yet. My school term just started in January and I had been really busy adjusting to the workload. Now we're released for the Lunar New Year, and I've decided to continue writing this, to not keep you waiting any longer.

But fret not! This story still holds sway in my priority list! I would like to thank a few regulars such as Beloved Daughter and LadyBlackroseMusketeer for their constant support and for my smooth passage into the fandom.

* * *

The Misty Mountains is the worst place a dwarf could be. Men saw no reason to cross the mountains, and the orcs of Moria shied away from the elves of the light. Dwarves were never so vulnerable in the defiled halls of Khazad-dûm. The irony of the situation was scorned upon the dwarf that was being dragged deeper into the ruins.

The dwarf realized he was no longer on his feet anymore, he was in chains and shackles, and was being dragged deeper into the mountain range. His bare back scraped along the worn floor as slimy hands tore at his arms, hauling his battered self forward.

The dwarf flailed, trying to get up, but he was quickly put down by a boot to the face. The cartilage of his nose was bent grotesquely upwards. Thick blood seeped into his mouth and flowed from the deformed cavity of what were his nostrils. He felt his strength failing him, the same muscles that had served him well in days gone past. But now, with his mouth dry and his ears ringing, he was forced into the former home of his people. Now every tentative stumble was a pain, and every torturous breath a stab in his lungs.

The dwarf noticed it. His eyes gazed upon veins and veins of mithril, with the lustre of gold and the fourfold strength of wrought steel. The riches of Durin's line were still intact, waiting for people to claim it from the darkness… until he was forced down sharply on his knees, smashing his kneecaps on the 21st hall.

"Where is your king?" the slither of a voice echoed through the defunct hall. The voice seemed to be made of velvet, with the decorous proprietary of a lord, and the officious aggressiveness of a conqueror.

The dwarf's heartbeat thrummed in his head, the musty air turning caustic in his throat. Words failed him as he opened his mouth, and it stayed ajar, as if the very notion of language deserted him at the tip of his tongue.

"Word has it that your king has moved east, that he left the administration of your smelly settlement to Balin." His eyes dilated, his hands trembled and his face contorted into shock. The dwarf's incredulous reaction betrayed him. His assailant pursed his lips, the dwarf only confirming what he already knew. His mace made a strident sound against the stone floor, feeling the weight of the familiar weapon in his palm, ready to interpose the conversation.

The dwarf barely had the moment to contemplate his fate as the weight of the mace plowed into his back. The impact of the wrought iron splintered bones and tore sinew. The second blow cracked his skull open like a chestnut, brain matter spattering over the floor in a grotesque artistry. The dwarf lay still. Sheets of red silk cascaded over his broken body, layers of biology spilling onto the floor. With the stillness of death shrouding him like a blanket; it was as if Mahal was tucking his tired child into bed.

* * *

Bella woke up and helped herself to breakfast before getting dressed. Hobbits usually do not follow routines and schedules. If there are routines that they come close to following, it will be the time they wake, eat and sleep. What Bella couldn't understand was that the three dwarves boarding in her house had nothing to do all day but _sleep_. Don't they get hungry in their sleep? Don't they yearn for the sun to shine upon their faces? Bella gave a loud snort as she checked on Thorin, sprawled over the sofa like a majestic pig.

A pig.

In a streak of youthful mischief, Bella ran to her study and fetched her nib, a bottle of ink, and a card. She neatly penned down a note telling Thorin where she would be going, and all other things that adults do. But Bella wasn't really of age yet, was she? It must be forgiven that she spelled the word 'PIGGY' on the royal brow of a king in her darkest maroon ink.

She might actually be the only one to live to tell the tale.

* * *

Thorin woke up on something soft for the first time in _decades_. Clambering to his feet, he looked around and took in his vaguely familiar surroundings. He slept on a sofa that was warm and cosy, a stark contrast to the hard ground and bedrolls he had gotten used to while travelling. His bootless feet were planted firmly on a carpeted floor, instead of the dense undergrowths of woodlands and the damp soil of rolling plains. The room he awoke in was awash in warm colours or orange, maroon, red and brown. Wooden furniture filled the room, giving it a sense of warmth and hospitality.

The events of the night before came flooding back into his head. This included the hobbit lass, his unbecoming behaviour towards her, and yes, her broken fence. Damn that fence gate. It would all be perfectly fine and polite if he _could _find the hobbit, but the problem was that he couldn't. He checked every single room and no, his hostess wasn't present. Fili and Kili were still sound asleep, be it due to the soft beds or functional heating, Thorin didn;t know.

Thorin's gaze fell upon a sheet of paper pinned next to the main entrance. Her neat penmanship made the writing flow and curve, another stark contrast to the angular and simplistic runes of Khuzdul. Apparently, Miss Baggins was out for elevensies with her extended family. He was free to leave whenever he wanted, and could help himself to some food in the pantry. Thorin really did not know which was more pressing: the absurd generosity of hobbits, or their equally absurd and unnecessary meals.

He read and re-read the note that had been left for him, appreciating the cursive script and expensive stationery. In a wave of foolishness, he brought the card to his nose and sniffed. It smelled of lavender blossoms in mid-Spring, the floral scent was foreign and delicate to his nose. Thorin took another whiff, and he realised where he had smelled lavender before. The hobbit's scent never smelled so enticing.

Thorin's stomach growled.

Other things can wait.

* * *

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